


Teaghlaigh do Theaghlaigh (Family for Family)

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Mob, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Misogyny, Irish Language, Misogyny, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postpartum Depression, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gealbhan Killian is a woman of the Boston Irish crime clans married to a man she doesn't care for with a son she's not sure she wants.</p><p>Then the world ends, her husband is murdered and son taken.</p><p>"Teaghlaigh do Theaghlaigh" is the motto of the Boston Killians. And even if it kills her, Gealbhan will fulfil the duty to her clan, even in a world of rust and ruin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, criminal acts, domestic violence and mentions of PTSD, postpartum depression, torture and war crimes. AU Sparrow where she was raised by her Irish mobster dad after her mum died, so a fairly different skillset to canon!Sparrow.

 

“War, war never changes.”

            Gealbhan made the appropriate approving noise in the back of her throat as Nate finished his speech, staring into the mirror to make sure he looked grave enough. Her husband was a man who gloried in violence, who embraced what he considered his patriotic duty to America, yet tonight he would have to pretend to be an honourably discharged, highly decorated veteran worried about the future. The veteran’s hall in Concord – and by extension Fraternal Post 115 in Cambridge – were thrilled to have an officer address them during a fundraiser for shell-shocked soldiers.

            She could think of a half-dozen other things that she’d rather be doing, the majority more relevant to their family’s prosperity. But a good wife from the Irish crime clans supported her husband in his endeavours or received a backhand to the face in order to learn better. Or so it was amongst the New York-bred Finlays. Her own clan, the Killians, were more egalitarian.

            _Damn Eddie Winter,_ she thought bitterly as Nate wiped the steam-fogged mirror. _I could have been clan-chief instead of Tine down in Quincy. But no, we had to join forces to survive and there was only one person who could marry into the Finlays-_

“You’ll knock them dead at the veteran’s hall tonight,” she assured Nate before the silence went on for too long.

            “You certain?” His green-hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously.

            “Absolutely. Now quit hogging the mirror. It takes me longer to get ready than you.”

            He stepped aside and allowed her access to it. Gealbhan checked her face for any sign of bruising or sleeplessness. Appearances had to be maintained in the military community and that meant a housewife had to look perky and perfect in public. She consoled herself by imagining the expressions on the other ladies’ faces when they found out that in her circles, a good wife did more than just managing the household, having children and holding down an appropriately genteel job.

            Even Nate with his control freak tendencies knew better than to interrupt her duties to their combined families. Amongst the Irish crime clans, the bean na tí (or the fear na tí) was expected to know how to keep the books (and cook them appropriately), produce and use explosives to protect caches of illegal goods, mod and scrap weapons, and perform first aid up to and including rough transfusions and field surgery. That entailed Gealbhan going into Concord at least twice a week and down to Quincy every month or so, trips that she explained as ‘family business’. Which it was but not in the way the neighbours would understand it.

            Her bruises from their last argument – over buying Codsworth to give her more time to handle clan business – had faded and therefore nothing more than a light dusting of powder, some eye makeup and a touch of lip gloss would be needed. Gealbhan was fortunate enough to have thin eyebrows that arched naturally, saving her from maintaining them, and her bone structure was fine enough to carry off a minimum of makeup. If it wasn’t for the patches of vitiligo and diagonal scars which cut across her left cheek and mouth, she might have even been called beautiful.

            She applied the cosmetics absently, running through the tallies from the Killian speakeasies and the Finlay gun running for the month. Nate exited the bathroom, thank Jesus, and went to play with Shaun in the nursery. If the man had a virtue, it was the love for his firstborn son.

            Her chestnut-brown hair was already pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Later on, she’d change into the red dress that Nate liked, the classy one that didn’t show much cleavage but clung to her slender form. She would have preferred her dark brown business suit and burnt orange blouse but that was too ‘severe’ for a woman.

            Gealbhan rested her forehead against the mirror for a moment and sighed. Being married to Nate was hard – but the good of the clans depended on it. Eddy Winter had no respect for convention and Mother Murphy swore up and down that he had ties to the DA. Given that the chem-cooking clan was known for its oracular powers, she could well believe that.

            Even before the alliance, the four great families of Boston’s criminal underworld were incestuously entwined. The Killians specialised in distilling illegal liquor and acquiring restricted civilian goods like food and fusion cells. The Finlays were gun runners who smuggled other things as well. The Murphies cooked chems – and by extension, medicines that were sold on the black market. And the Savoldis were in the business of violence, be it protection, extortion or assassination.

            _Nate should have married a Savoldi. His skillset is right up their alley._ Unless he secured a private mercenary gig, he’d need to find a legitimate job because working as an enforcer would infringe on the Italians.

            There were lesser players in the game – the Pierogi Posse up in Lexington, a close-knit Polish community, and a few small-time families – but it was the four who stood between Eddy Winter and his domination of Boston. If it wasn’t for them, there would be more than the occasional food riot – blood and anarchy would rule the streets. Even BADTFL under Nick Valentine, an old friend of her father’s and the awkward result of a brief affair between a Murphy and a Savoldi, knew that.

            Gealbhan sighed again. War in Alaska, war at home. An endless grind of drudgery interspersed with violence until someone launched the nukes to finish off the world.

            Codsworth handed her a mug of coffee when she entered the kitchen, Nate now reading the paper as the newsman nattered on in the background. Gealbhan sipped it, leafing idly through the free Grognak the Barbarian comic that came with Saturday’s paper, and enjoyed the rare moment of peace in the household.

            “I wasn’t sure about Codsworth at first but I’m glad we got him,” Nate finally admitted after Shaun started crying and the Mr Handy went to change his diaper.

            “Agreed,” she murmured.

            The doorbell rang and Nate sighed. “It’s that fucking Vault-Tec salesman, I bet. He’ll only speak to you.”

            Gealbhan set aside her coffee. “I’ll sort it out.”

            Nate was correct. It was a salesman whose Irish red hair, freckled complexion and grass-green eyes clashed violently with his yellow fedora and trench coat. “How can I help you?” she asked politely.

            It turned out that due to her father’s military service, they’d been preselected for the Vault just up on the hill. Gealbhan filled out all the appropriate paperwork, wondering why Nate’s own service hadn’t qualified them for this, and closed the door in the Vault-Tec rep’s face as he rattled off his closing spiel.

            “Miss Sparrow,” Codsworth said, using the Sasanach name that the world knew her by. “I’ve changed Shaun’s diaper but he won’t settle down. I think he needs some maternal affection.”

            “Go ahead, I’ll be with you in a minute,” Nate ordered.

            Gealbhan entered the nursery and looked down at Shaun, tickling his belly until he giggled. The child was truly Nate’s; postpartum depression had been her lot after bearing him. Even now she still felt a leaden cloak wrap around her shoulders when he looked up at her with Nate’s green-hazel eyes.

            “I fixed the mobile the other day; why don’t you give it a spin?” Nate, of course, appeared shortly after and ordered her how to entertain his precious heir. Gealbhan obeyed and listened to the sweet sounds of a wind-up jingle.

            “Sir? Mum? You need to see this!”

            Codsworth’s voice was raw with panic and Sparrow was already bolting for the door. Whatever was going on-

            The last sound of the mobile’s music faded away as the newsman announced the nuclear bombing of New York and Pennsylvania.

            “Codsworth, stay safe,” Gealbhan told him as she yanked the door opened. The Vault was a two-minute run up the hill. God, she hoped they made it.

            “And you too, mum. Oh my.”

            They were let through the gate and led up to the Vault entrance. As long as she lived, Gealbhan would never forget looking past Nate with Shaun in his arms at the sky, blue as the Virgin Mary’s mantle, and watching the white-gold flash of light that transformed into a hellish mushroom cloud of orange.

            The heat and force washed over them as they descended into the depths of what would be their new home.

…

The Vault-Tec staff seemed very keen to chivvy them into decompression chambers before letting them go deeper. As the cold locked around her, slowing down her heartbeat, Gealbhan realised that they’d been betrayed. Then the world turned to white that deepened into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

            She awoke, the white bleeding away to reveal two figures standing before Nate’s pod, taking Shaun from his arms. Gealbhan watched, eyes wide and blank, as the bald, scar-faced man with a nice Colt .44 pistol turned Nate’s head into red ruin. If she wasn’t trapped in the pod, she would have thanked him.

            He ordered the woman carrying Shaun to leave before stepping up to her pod, eyes bleak as winter rains. “At least we still have the backup.”

            And then the whiteness took her again.

…

Gealbhan pummelled her way out of the pod with bloodied fists, falling to her hands and knees, coughing as she tried to breathe. The air reeked of metal, cold and something sharply unpleasant. Stumbling through the Vault almost blindly, she discovered that roaches were now the size of housecats and aggressive besides. Once she got her hands on a 10mm pistol and some ammo, the situation changed, and she cleared the entire ruin of the creatures. Then she pulled the meat from their carcasses, cooked it on the portable hotplate she’d found, and drank the faintly bleach-tasting water from the kitchen sink.

            A Pipboy saw her escape the Vault and once her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a sere grey-brown landscape of flattened trees and ruined suburban houses. No sign of Shaun or anything living other than the fat glossy shapes of crows picking at the bones of the dead.

            She wandered along the river, collecting the strange new flora that populated this world of rust and ruin, and quickly discovered that the flies were as big as the roaches. And that the people would shoot at her before she could even greet them. At least they had sturdier clothing than the Vault suit, drab browns and greys with leather that faded into the landscape. Guns and ammo too.

            Eventually she made it to Sanctuary Hills where Codsworth fruitlessly tended to a dead hedge. “As I live and breathe… It’s…. it’s really you!”

            Gealbhan hugged the robot. “Yeah, I’m alive. No thanks to the bastards who shot Nate and took Shaun.”

            It took some convincing to get him to believe her. Then he led her through the ruins, which were infested by the giant flies and roaches, and told her that ‘a rough crowd’ now lived in Concord.

            Before she crossed the bridge, she found a cache that had been one of the few things she and Nate agreed on. Purified water. Military rations. Medical supplies. Nate’s old military uniform, combat armour and laser rifle. Her grenades and heavily modded combat shotgun.

            Prepared for the world beyond the bridge, she crossed it and passed by a Red Rocket where a German Shepard was fending off creatures that were the unholy love children of rats and moles. Gealbhan found herself with a dog and stripped the truck stop clean before heading down into Concord.

            The ‘rough crowd’ had pinned a group of civilians and a handsome black man who wielded some kind of hand-cranked laser weapon in the Museum of Freedom. Gealbhan agreed to help them – they weren’t trying to kill her and there were questions she needed to ask.

            The raiders would have been dead in ten minutes if Nate was alive. It took Gealbhan about half an hour, a gunshot to the shoulder and four Molotov cocktails to clear them out. And then Preston Garvey of the Commonwealth Minutemen needed _another_ favour from her involving a fusion core, a set of power armour and a mini-gun.

            Gealbhan studied the settlers, taking note of the burly dark-haired man in overalls and the Chinese woman whose eyes blazed with grief, rage and despair. “I want you and you on the balcony,” she told the two in turn. “I have some Molotov cocktails and grenades. Garvey, aim for the ones who look the strongest.”

            The hollow-eyed Minuteman nodded as the woman – Marci – spluttered. “The Minutemen promised to protect us and they didn’t!”

            “ _I’m_ not a Minuteman and I won’t protect you unless you protect me,” Gealbhan said mercilessly.

            “No point in arguing with her,” observed the old woman, who had the faded blue eyes of a Murphy. “She’s just what we need. And the Commonwealth too.”

            “Mother Murphy,” Gealbhan greeted softly in Irish. “What have you Seen?”

            The frail oracle shuddered like a fly-stung horse. “Horns and death and claws. It comes, drawn by the noise, angry and wanting blood.”

            “You know Mama Murphy?” Marci asked, eyes narrowed.

            “Not this one, but I knew her clan.” Gealbhan took a deep breath. “So, in addition to raiders, we now have a monster approaching. If you’ll allow me the indulgence, I think I’m going to take a moment to pray.”

            Preston’s smile was thin. “I think a little divine intercession would be appreciated by everyone. Our Father Who art in Heaven…”

            She didn’t know if the prayer helped later on but as the deathclaw picked her up, power armour and all, and flung her across the street with nothing worse than a few cracked ribs, Gealbhan reflected that the miracle was probably on the Quincy settlers’ side.

            But they survived. And won. Preston skinned the deathclaw’s carcass as Jun and Mama Murphy looted the dead with a pragmatism Gealbhan could appreciate. “You should come with us,” he suggested gently.

            She shook her head. “I can’t. Someone killed my husband and took my baby. I have to find them.”

            Clan honour demanded it. Even though she was glad to be rid of Nate and her feelings to Shaun were ambivalent, she had the duty to find those responsible and extract praghas onóir – honour price – from them, preferably in blood.

            “Dleacht fola?” Preston asked, eyebrow arching.

            _Blood duty._ “Yes.”

            “Figured you were a clanswoman when you spoke to Mama Murphy.” Preston sighed and rubbed the back of his greasy neck. “Once, the Minutemen would have helped you find them, to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. But there’s just me and I need to get these people to Mama Murphy’s Sanctuary.”

            “Sanctuary Hills? It’s just over the hill past the Red Rocket,” she told him as the dog came bounding up, having been sent away once she realised there were raiders here. “I lived there once.”

            Preston’s eyes widened. “Please come with us. I’m pretty sure we can provide some hospitality and it’s nearly night.”

            Gealbhan sighed as the dog nosed at Preston’s hand, worrying the strip of deathclaw meat still in it. The Minuteman laughed and let him take it. “Fine. Once you clean out a house or two, it should be suitable, and my Mr Handy’s there to lend a hand.”

            “You’re a woman out of time. A woman out of hope.” Mama Murphy’s singsong voice interrupted their conversation. “But your son’s out there. I can feel his life force.”

            Gealbhan sucked in a ragged breath. “Do you know where, Mama Murphy?”

            She shook her head sadly. “No. Not without the chems. But I can tell you where to start looking.”

            “Diamond City. The great green jewel of the Commonwealth,” Preston added softly. “Everything and everyone passes through there eventually.”

            “Thank you,” she sighed. Jun, Marci and Sturges were packing up the loot and putting them into improvised rucksacks. “The world’s changed a lot since I last saw it.”

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “I was frozen for two hundred or so years, the day the bombs fell,” Gealbhan explained. “Someone broke in, killed most of us and took my son.”

            “Damn, that’s messed up. No wonder you’re following blood duty.” Preston turned towards the north. “Since we owe you our lives, if there’s anything we can do to help, just ask.”

            “Be careful, Preston, I might hold you to that promise.” Gealbhan walked by his side, offering her hand. “I’m Gealbhan Killian, by the way.”

            “Told you she was a Killian,” Sturges muttered to Marci. “And here you was saying they was all dead.”

            “They are! She doesn’t count because she was in a freezer.”

            Preston shook her hand. “Good to meet you.”

            They walked through the streets of Concord to the carcass of the two-headed cow which now was infested with giant mosquitoes. Before Gealbhan could react, Preston shot the pair of them and – of course – stripped them of usable meat and parts. And the dead cow too.

            “Bloodbugs and that’s a Brahmin,” he explained.

            “What are the giant roaches and flies?”

            “Radroaches and bloatflies. In the insect department, we also have radscorpions and stingwings.” Preston pointed to the oily-looking flowers growing beside the road. “Hubflower.”

            “I picked some red leaves growing in the water and a purple fruit earlier,” Gealbhan told him.

            “Bloodleaf and mutfruit.” Preston smiled wearily. “If you hang around for a couple days in Sanctuary, I’ll sit you down and explain what’s what. That way, you won’t stand out so much as a Vault Dweller.”

            _Act in haste, repent at leisure._ It was one of the few things Gealbhan remembered her mother Elisabeth telling her before the woman died at the hands of a Commie traitor.

            “Fine,” she agreed wearily. “Codsworth will want to know I found some new friends anyway. I think he’s been lonely.”

            She was tired and felt a little ill. Some rest would be good before she made an arduous trek south. She wondered where Diamond City was.

            Even with Shaun gone and her bearing the burden of avenging Nate in a world of rust and ruin, Gealbhan Killian had never felt more like herself since her father died. That alone made all of this almost worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and implied drug use. Cac is Irish for crap or shite.

 

Two days later, Gealbhan set out once more from Sanctuary with a rough map of the northern Commonwealth, basic lessons in how to survive as a Wastelander and a prophecy from Mama Murphy. Preston hadn’t been happy about her trading a dose of Jet to the old oracle in return for a targeted vision and it was all she could do to remain civil to the Minuteman afterwards. Perhaps a week or so in the south would sweeten their opinions of each other but until then, she’d use every tool that came to her hand in order to fulfil her clan duty.

            Across the river lay Abernathy Farm, inhabited by a family that had been hit by raiders and a daughter executed for standing up to them. Blake, the patriarch, filled in a little more of her map with trade routes in return for a promise to find Mary’s locket, a clan heirloom belonging to his wife. Since the old satellite station was up in the hills near another settlement that was hit by a gang in Lexington, Gealbhan decided she’d pass on the message to Preston on her return to Sanctuary. They couldn’t expect a single woman to take on entire hordes of raiders, right?

            She was halfway down the bluff and heading southeast towards Boston proper when the old grief in the farmer’s eyes made her turn towards Concord to take the easy route back to Sanctuary, cursing under her breath all the way.

            “Gealbhan, what’s wrong?” Preston asked, meeting her at the half-broken bridge that crossed the river.

            “Abernathy Farm lost a daughter to the raiders up near… Pines Bluff? Cac, I don’t know. Just thought you might want to know because that settlement wants help too.”

            Garvey’s amber eyes turned thoughtful. “Until Jun and Marci get the crops going here, we could definitely use another settlement on our side. And since Tenpines Bluff is in that direction, could kill two birds with one stone.”

            “Precisely-. No. No. No.” Two days after meeting him, Gealbhan had learned to recognise when Preston was about to ask something of her. “I came back briefly to tell you seeing as you’re wanting to get the Minutemen up and running again, not go miles out of my way to fight another bunch of honourless cac.”

            “Can’t stop you from leaving, Gealbhan,” Preston agreed with that long mournful expression that could win a reprieve from the Angel of Death. “It’s just that you’re the first person to give a damn for things outside of your own problems I’ve met since the Minutemen died.”

            If it had been anyone else, Gealbhan would have told them to fuck off and gone on her merry way. But Preston was honest and sincere in a way that made her wonder how the hell he’d survived this long in a Wasteland populated by murdering scum.

            “Pack some rations,” she told him sourly. “Going to take the pair of us to wipe out a station full of raiders.”

            The Minuteman touched his slouched cowboy hat with a faint smile. “It will be my pleasure, Gealbhan. I’ll give you some more lessons on the Commonwealth’s plant life on the way there.”

…

USAF Satellite Olivia was fairly easy to clear out, the raiders too sodden with drink or high on chems to notice a pair of stealthy snipers until it was too late. Tenpines Bluff, on the other hand, wanted them to clear out an entire _factory_ of the bastards – the source of the gang that had chased the Quincy survivors from Lexington to Concord. Preston agreed to do so and after they’d left the tiny settlement, Gealbhan was ready to explode.

“Where the _fucking_ hell are we going to get enough forces to kill twenty or thirty raiders, at minimum, who will hold the superior high ground on the outside?” she demanded once they’d walked down into the valley. “Not to mention what’s likely to be on the inside of a car factory!”

“You’re familiar with Corvega?” Preston asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No, I’ve only heard about it through twelve generations of clan tales! Of _course_ I’m familiar with Corvega, even though Lexington was Pierogi Posse territory-“

“ _What_ posse?”

Gealbhan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Lexington was apparently inhabited by ghouls – whatever the hell they were – and raiders these days. “Before the bombs fell, the Commonwealth was divided into territories by the crime clans – think something akin to raiders, but we followed a particular code that forbade violence in civilian locations like schools, family homes, churches… The territories were often divided on cultural lines – Lexington was home to the organised Polish crime clan that we nicknamed the Pierogi Posse because pierogi dumplings were a popular food there.”

Preston was silent for a long moment. “You’re telling me that the Killian and Murphy clans of Quincy were descended from criminals?”

“We were the two native Irish clans,” Gealbhan confirmed. “The Finlays came in after NYC went into meltdown and in order to avoid a shadow war, the Killian clan-chief’s only daughter married the son of their chief enforcer. The Savoldis had their own sphere of influence and between the four clans, we managed to keep things relatively stable despite the civil unrest. Sometimes, we were the only help that our equivalent of people like Jun, Marci and Sturges had.”

“Sounds more like Minutemen than raiders.”

“Oh, what we did was illegal by the laws of the time.” Gealbhan began to walk again, kicking a small pebble before her. “My clan made whiskey without proper licences and smuggled in restricted civilian goods like food and fuel. Nate’s family were the gun runners and smugglers for everyone else’s goods. Mama Murphy’s ancestors made chems and bootleg versions of medicines in addition to various kinds of explosives. The Savoldis traded in violence – protection, security, assassination. Lesser clans like the Pierogi Posse dabbled in other spheres. For the most part, we worked together and tried not to infringe on each other’s turf.”

“I’m guessing something happened.” Preston’s tones had lost some of its early condemnation.

“A renegade from Chicago named Eddie Winter happened. He shattered the code we followed – in one particular instance, he shot the fiancée of a family friend who happened to be a cop in the back as she walked home from work one day to make a point. The cops tended to carefully look the other way because without us, a fair chunk of South Boston would have rioted from lack of food, fuel and medicine.”

Gealbhan hugged herself. “Because of that, the Killians and the Finlays merged to protect our interests.”

“You and your husband.”

“Me and my husband. It was… a difficult marriage.”

Preston sighed. “I’m sorry. Everyone goes on about the pre-War times being great and good, saying that the grass was green as mirelurk blood and deathclaws didn’t exist. But the Great War didn’t happen because it was paradise, right?”

“No. The Great War happened because two powerful nations tried to suck the last resources out of the world and killed each other in a futile war.” Gealbhan studied her boots. “I don’t expect you to understand my worldview, Garvey. Hell, I’m not particularly bothered if you approve of me or not. But until Corvega’s cleared, we’re stuck together, so we need to figure out how we’re going to be big damn heroes against a superior force.”

…

 _Gealbhan’s history lesson was enlightening,_ Preston mused as they studied Corvega through sniper scopes. The factory was heavily fortified and crawling with guards set up in the perfect spots for effortless elimination of anyone stupid enough to come into range. _Certainly explains a lot about the clans._

The crime clans sounded like a mixture of the Triggermen and the Minutemen with a touch of the Gunners. Or maybe the denizens of Goodneighbour, benevolent anarchists with a rough side to them. But he wouldn’t insult Gealbhan’s ancestors by comparing them to raiders as she had. Raiders were chaotic and immoral, dedicated to short-term gains and self-interest. If Gealbhan was anything to go by, they had their own moral code, one that had survived to the modern day.

            Preston’s Granma had been a clanswoman, a Murphy like Mama back in Sanctuary. He’d grown up learning the language and the ways until she died when he was ten, his mom wanting him to settle down and be a farmer like her. Yet he remembered stories of clan heroes like Seanascal Killian, who warned the Irish of the coming Great War and helped them set up for it, God rewarding him by taking him to Heaven a few years before the bombs fell. Or Tine Killian, who married a Murphy woman and turned Quincy into the greatest clanhold of the southern Commonwealth…

            “No way we can sneak in at the front,” he finally said, pulling himself from his reverie. “We should check out the back, see if there’s any entrances there.”

            “Great minds think alike. Every factory and facility had a cooling tunnel for its nuclear reactors and fusion cores,” Gealbhan agreed. “Let’s go.”

            They rounded the factory as twilight fell and – as she’d predicted – the cooling tunnel was unguarded and had no grate. “Try not to swallow the water,” Preston advised softly. “Rads will be bad enough and we don’t have any Rad-X.”

            The clanswoman nodded. “Let’s do this. I have some ideas but I need to see inside the facility first.”

            Clan honour dictated that when facing an enemy, it was permissible to use what tactics they would. Seeing as raiders would see nothing wrong with doing _anything_ , no matter how horrific, to a Minuteman – Preston rather thought his and Gealbhan’s tactics of sneaking around and sniping the enemy to be rather ethical in comparison. Open battles were very well but when it was two against thirty, you had to be pragmatic and even creative.

            When they came to a knot of sleeping raiders, Gealbhan laid aside her sniper rifle and drew a combat knife from her boot. What followed was nothing but cold-blooded murder of unarmed sleeping people. Preston’s conscience twinged – it was a bit too much like the Gunners’ style of combat for his liking. Even if it was raiders.

            But in Gealbhan’s worldview, slitting the throats of raiders was probably more ethical than dying in some useless fight when she hadn’t even begun to find her son and avenge her husband.

            Eventually they worked their way to the inner sanctum of the raiders’ base, where the vaguely familiar leader of the gang paced around giving orders. Gealbhan’s eyes scanned the layout of the half-built cars, leaking oil and other explosive components before she smiled grimly.

            “Fall back to the entrance,” she murmured in Preston’s ear. “I have an idea.”

            He nodded and inched towards the door. Gealbhan had some frag grenades, Molotov cocktails and an assortment of mines. She’d demonstrated her skill with the explosives at Concord and in clearing particularly difficult piles of debris back in Sanctuary.

            Five minutes later, she rejoined him, expression urgent. “We need to go. Now.”

            They barely slammed the double doors shut before multiple explosions rocked the entire Corvega factory.

            “We need to check for survivors and anything salvageable,” Gealbhan said once the noise died down. “Oh, and for the outside guards to come see what the hell happened.”

            In the ensuing firefight, both Gealbhan and Preston picked up injuries but the raiders died. There was some good stuff to be salvaged and both of them wound up with packs full of food, ammo and scrap.

            “We’ll head back to Tenpines Bluff and then Sanctuary,” Preston told her as they settled down in the raiders’ former sleeping quarters for the night. “Unless you want to head down to Diamond City from here?”

            He hoped she came back. Preston wanted to talk to her about resurrecting the Minutemen and he thought she had what it took to be the General, even if her tactics were a bit grim at times.

            “If I’m understanding the map, it’s nearly halfway to Diamond City,” Gealbhan answered softly. “Preston, I need to find this bright heart in a dark alley and you can’t stay too long away from Sanctuary.”

            He sighed and nodded. “I wish you wouldn’t give Mama Murphy chems. Her heart’s weak.”

            Her radstag-doe gaze was bleak. “I’ll try to be careful and save it for what I can’t find out on my own. But you’re asking something I can’t do. I need to find Shaun and those who took him. I’m sorry, Preston.”

            “Well, I hope your search is easy enough you don’t need Mama Murphy,” he finally said.

            “So do I,” she observed, rolling over to sleep. “So do I.”


End file.
